


Acceptance

by Infie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-14
Updated: 2006-11-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infie/pseuds/Infie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers: No Exit<br/>Jo's thoughts throughout the episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acceptance

I know what you're wondering. 

What the hell was I thinking? 

And you know... that's pretty much what I'm wondering, too. 

Oh, probably not about the same *things* you are. 

But I guess I should start back at the beginning. 

My Mom. 

Argh. 

Look. I know what she's lost, and I know why she is the way she is. But I'm 21 years old. Old enough to go away to school. Old enough to vote. Old enough to drink myself under the table if I want to. Gods DAMN it. 

Old enough to leave the bar without permission. 

But in some part of my mom's brain, I'm still the little girl I was when my dad died. The little girl she focussed on, clung to so desperate to keep away the pain. She loved my dad so much... his dying broke something inside her. Something important. Since then to her I'll be that child forever. The child to be protected at any, all costs. 

The only thing she has left of my dad. 

Unfortunately for us both, I'm not just my mom's daughter - I'm my dad's. And knowing what there is out there, I can't just let it go. So I do my research, and I build my files, and I *burn* with the need to go and do something to stop the bad things. Eventually, she'll have to let me go. 

These girls in Philly. The first one I came across, I stared at her picture for a good ten minutes straight. The picture was from the mid sixties, and that girl? She was a dead ringer for my mom at that age. So young. So pretty. So blonde... so *gone*. I saw that picture, and there was no possible way I was going to let it go. I needed to know what happened to her. So I kept digging, and I found a pattern. A pattern I knew in my bones was a spirit. I had to follow up. 

She looked like my *mom*. And, since I'm a living, breathing echo of my mother, she looked like me. How could I let that go? 

Mom predictably went nuts at the very idea of my chasing this lead. Hunting? ME? Nuts doesn't even begin to cover her reaction. She upended a table and two barstools, for pete sake! We were just getting to the shouting when I looked over her shoulder and saw the Winchester boys watching us. Dean was smirking, Sam looked like he'd rather be facing down a demon when Mom turned to look. She saw an interruption. 

I saw a chance for validation. "Wait! I want to know what they think about this." 

I was counting on their support. I *needed* their support. When I handed that file folder to Dean, I was handing him a lot more than my research. I knew it was Dean I had to convince. I can't remember ever talking so fast in my life, trying to get through to him before my mom got off the phone. My voice shook, making me sound younger with the stress. I cursed it, fought to keep my tone level and professional, kept trying to catch Dean's gaze, to force him to really listen. The whole time, I felt Sam's eyes on me, kind (*John's eyes*), assessing my urgency. 

When Dean looked up, his face was remote. On the surface, he was still considering, but behind those eyes he'd already sided with my mom. I took a breath to start trying to change his mind. 

Help was unexpected. Sam stepped closer, getting Dean's attention. "You've gotta admit, we've hit the road for a lot less." His voice was soft, calm, nudging ever so slightly. Dean listened. 

The phone slammed over Sam's words; my mom re-entering the fray. I knew before she walked over the weapon she would use, just as she did every other time. Parents always know just where to place the knife, just how to twist the blade to reach your heart. "I will not lose you, too. I just won't." The pain, the resolution on her face was raw. 

Just like that, I lost. Dean looked away, clearly understanding mom's place too clearly. I could have cried with frustration when I saw it. Sam's face was pure sympathy, and it wasn't until his eyes shifted to meet mine that I realised it was for me. That one glance gave me strength, hardened my resolve. When I looked back at Mom, I knew my face was just as stubborn and set as hers. 

Hey... I'm not just my dad's daughter; I'm also my mom's. 

There was really no chance of me staying home. I grabbed my truck, threatened Ash into laying my trail to Vegas, and hit the road to Philadelphia. 

The landlord was a pushover. I'd known I was going to run into Dean and Sam eventually of course; could hardly avoid them since I gave them my case. I wasn't expecting them in the hallway though. Still, I have to admit, seeing them gave me a little thrill. 

Man, I love to be on the hunt. 

Of course, I headed straight for Dean. I could have aimed for Sam, but he was already mostly on my side. The most likely one to pull the plug was Dean, so I made a beeline for him. I paid for it with the extra-forceful slaps on the ass. The look on Sam's face at the first smack almost made me burst out laughing. He looked so... taken aback. A combination of irritation, shock, and dismay. I managed to set that, and how strong Dean's arm felt around my waist, aside long enough to pay for the room. 

The lecture, about my mom? Unnecessary. And hypocritical. Who the hell is Dean Winchester of all people to lecture me about lying to people? Isn't that how he makes his living? I caught myself glancing at Sam for support through the argument and had to make myself stop. I didn't need his help either. If I had to, I could do it all myself. 

Well, except take that call from my mom. It reminded me... I need these guys. Facing down Dean from inches away, those gorgeous eyes staring grimly at me as he lied for me, reminded me of other things I needed too. It jolted awareness of those things through me, and my eyes wandered just the littlest bit before I got them back under control and beamed up at him. 

The look on his face told me he'd felt it too. 

This was going to be a long hunt. 

Of course, Dean's attitude immediately made it feel a whole lot longer. The whole time he was pacing behind me it felt like I was being watched by a tiger, or a wolf. Something dangerous that didn't particularly care for my company. The fact that awareness was still operating and I could feel every motion he made in the pit of my stomach didn't help in the least. Sam's calm presence beside me only marginally distracted me, and I flipped my knife through my fingers endlessly in an effort to focus properly. I managed to stop long enough to justify my research, again. "I know what I'm doing." 

"I think the jury's still out on that one." He gave a half-wink and a sneer. The condescending smirk almost undid the fraying threads of my temper. I settled for clenching my fingers around the hilt and returning to spinning the knife. An involuntary look at Sam caught a half-smile on his face, like he was watching a tennis match. It was kind, and a little self-deprecating. I realised a little belatedly that he'd likely been through all this with Dean already when he'd first started hunting. It made Sam's amusement understandable. It didn't make Dean's snarking any easier to take though. When he stood to step in my way, it was hard to remember why I wanted to go alone. I swear, looking up into those eyes, I completely forgot. 

Oh, right. It came back to me as we walked the hall. He was an ass. (A *hot* ass, but an ass nonetheless.) Naturally, I had to call him on it. God, he's irritating. Seriously - is it really *necessary* to be so damned... damned... argh! 

At least the argument led to the first real breakthrough. I figured it out, why Sam understood it, understood me, but Dean didn't. Dean had never been the amateur. He'd always been the experienced one. The one in charge. The one responsible. He sounded like my mother. 

"And now, you sound like my mother." 

"And that's a bad thing? 'Cause, let me tell you..." He broke off, stared at me, with a half-smile on his face. Finally, it was the real Dean behind it, not the smart ass. It was someone who wanted to pass on some honest advice. 

Not that I actually *agreed*. "You love this job." 

"Yeah, but I'm a little twisted." The half-smile shifted, became something subtly darker. 

"You don't think I'm a 'little twisted' too?" Even as I said it, I heard how lame it sounded. The look on Dean's face said more eloquently than words that he thought so too. I'd missed my chance to make that connection, the one that would have broken through the reserve. 

"Jo, you've got a mother that worries about you, who wants something more for you. Those are good things. You don't throw things like that away." His voice dropped as he said it, and this time he didn't sound like John. No, this time, he sounded like my dad, playing peacemaker between mom and I for the thousandth time. "It might be hard to find later." I would give anything to hear that lecture from my dad's lips instead of Dean's. 

Getting back to work was a relief. Something had changed, in that last conversation. Somewhere, a truce had been called; or, at least, a cease-fire. Working together - just working - was good. Comfortable. Warm. 

I couldn't sleep that night. I was too keyed up. And Dean's words kept echoing in my head. After a while, they weren't in his voice anymore. The timbre and cadence changed, and all I could hear was my dad. (*Jo, girl, slow down. Listen to your mom. She's only thinking of you. There's lots of time for you to learn hunting, darlin'.*) I twisted on the bed. (*Your mom just wants the best for you, Jo. You've got a lot you can learn from her. More important things than hunting.*) I punched my pillow. My constant companion the knife dug into my hip. (*I love you, Jo.*) That last one drove me out of bed, back to the table, back to my file. 

Back to the soothing, restless slide of blade and hilt over fingers. 

When Sam woke up, he just gave me a quick once-over with tired eyes and immediately suggested coffee. Remembering the black ooze in the light switches, I promptly suggested he go out for it. A wide smile told me he knew exactly what I'd been thinking, and he pulled on his jacket and headed out. 

Dean woke up pretty soon after. I'd been tempted ... well... by many things... but specifically to wake him up just to get him out of that awful contortion he managed in the chair. Each time, something stopped me, put me back in my seat at the table. It would have just seemed too... intimate. It seemed the cease fire was holding. 

Then it was Dean's turn to step in it. I recognized the knife as the peace offering it was, handed over my dagger in an answer that would be louder than words. My hand felt empty without it, even with that ten-inch hunting knife in my palm. I did everything but shower with my dagger. 

The question in his face drew the words out anyway. "William Anthony Harvelle." His eyes darkened in understanding, and his response was immediate. 

"Sorry. My mistake." He handed the dagger back with a matter-of fact brusqeness that reminded me of John, replaced his in its sheath. The dagger was a welcome weight, back in my hand where it belonged. For the first time in hours, my dad's voice was quiet in my head. 

I had to know, suddenly. Did John haunt Dean the way my dad haunted me? 

Even as I asked I saw his instinctive withdrawal and knew I'd ventured somewhere I wasn't welcome. But I had to know. 

As I watched him tell me about his favourite memory of John, I could tell that the answer was yes. If anything, the answer was... more. John's loss was newer, more raw. And there was something else there, something I couldn't identify. But the answer was, yes. 

Dean was haunted by John. 

Then, it was quid pro quo. It was my turn to reveal that little painful part of myself. It helped that I knew it was shared. And it helped that I knew that I could make Dean understand, through this memory, through this moment. My hand clenched on my knife, and I told him about my dad. 

And Dean understood. 

I have never been so scared as when I woke up in that box. I'd thought that seeing Holmes come out of the wall was bad? Well, waking up to see nothing at all was worse. I could feel the weight of the dagger at my hip, and it gave me something to focus on. While I had my dad's knife, nothing could really hurt me. Not really. I pulled on that belief, pulled hard. 

I pulled out my flashlight. 

I checked the confines of my box-prison. When the light played over the grooves above me, it took a minute to process the implications. Horror filled my stomach, pressed against the back of my throat, choked off my breath. They were nail marks, where someone had scrabbled at the box. 

Had dug. Ripped. Clawed. Desperately, frantically, hysterically. 

Hopelessly. 

And now I was in the same place. 

It took everything I had to fight back that tide of terror, to regain a slim measure of control. I remembered. Dean and Sam would be looking for me. They were experts - and for the very first time I appreciated that in a truly heartfelt way - and they would absolutely find me. Dean was too damned afraid of my mom to fail. It was the first time I appreciated that, too. Seemed this box was teaching me all sorts of things. 

"He..Hello?" I hated the quaver in my voice. 

A response, on the ragged edge of hysteria. "Is.. Is anybody there?" 

It had to be... "You're name's Theresa?" The interaction was helping me focus, helping me push back the fear. 

"Yes." She sounded relieved that I knew who she was. 

"This won't make you feel any better, but I'm here to rescue you." I almost laughed at the ludicrousness of it. 

She was... not reassured. I focussed on Dean and Sam, coming for me. I knew they were on their way. It was just a matter of time. A short time. A very short time. 

Like - any minute. 

Hell.. Now would be good. 

A bootstep. 

"Oh my god, he's here!" Theresa's voice crimped under the strain of her terror. I hissed at her to be quiet; listened intently into the resulting silence. I could hear my heart in my ears, could hear Theresa's frantic breathing. I tried desperately to control my own breaths, hoping.. hell, praying that footstep was Dean. 

When he grabbed me, wrenched at my hair, ripped it from my scalp, I screamed. It wasn't just pain. It was terror. Sheer, primitive terror. 

And I wasn't embarrassed at all. 

When he came back, the stench was terrible. I looked at his chipmunk teeth and scraggly evil beard through the vent in my box. I hated that face. I wanted to punch it in with a brick. I'd never known such cold rage. 

The blackened hand reached right through the wall. I scooted as far from it as I could get; turned my back on it, huddled against the side of the box and made myself as small as possible. Still, it ran over me like a cold, dead fish. I writhed, and my dad's knife bit into my hip. My knife! I groped for it, stabbed that bastard's hand as hard as I could. 

His cry of pain and rage as he fled was fucking music to me. I clenched the dagger tight in my fist, shouted with triumph. 

Then I slumped and started counting the seconds to seeing Dean and Sam on the other side of that terrifying slit in the box. 

Instead, I got Holmes. He grabbed my arm and banged it til I dropped the dagger. Smart for a dead guy. An instant later that dead-meat hand clamped over my mouth and nose, blocking all but the most minimal amount air. I struggled with him with one hand, my other flailing for my knife. 

Dean's shout was the sweetest sound I've ever heard in my life. The shotgun blast an instant later immediately replaced it as my favourite noise ever. Then, the sensation of cool air flowing back into my lungs took over everything. I managed to suck a deep breath, answered Dean's call. There was a commotion in the room, and when I looked, Dean was wrenching at the metal fasteners on the box. I felt tears sting the back of my eyes, but managed to fight them back before he got the door open. I spilled out of the box more slowly than I wanted to - I was stiff from all the time in the cramped space. 

"... lets get the hell out of here before he gets back." 

My hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't even brush my hair back from my face. I'd have put out my eye with the dagger I once again held clutched in my hand. My thumb was along the blade, and I could feel the ridges of my Dad's initials pressing into the flesh. 

"Actually... I don't think you're leaving here just yet." Dean was still breathing hard from tearing the door off my cell, and he didn't sound happy. Given the subject matter, neither was I. "Remember when I said you being bait was a bad plan? Now it's kinda the only one we got." 

Oh. Great. I looked over the expanse of Dean's shoulder at Sam cradling Theresa. He looked horrified at what they'd found, and equally unhappy at the whole idea of the 'plan', but he gave an eloquent half-shrug. It really was all we had. 

I took a deep breath, wincing at the smell of death that pervaded the whole place. Ok, then. Bait it would be. 

I sat cross-legged in the centre of the sewer junction, trying not to curl up in a ball, trying not to let the fear (*oh my god, oh my god, ohmygod, ohmygodohmygod*) take control. Even knowing Dean and Sam were right in front of me, it was so hard to stay there. So hard to wait for him to come and get me. The part of me that wanted to panic threaded though my muscles. I started to shake. 

How had Dad done this? How had he done this and come home whole? He'd pick me up, and he'd hug me close, and his eyes never held the shadows that should have been there after living through things like this. Even John's eyes held shadows. How had he done it? 

Of course I knew. There were no shadows there, because he loved me. 

The thought steadied me, even as I felt Holmes' presence behind me. I froze into utter immobility, barely even breathing. I closed my eyes tight, clenched my fist, imagined the feel of the dagger hilt in my hand. Imagined my dad there with me, watching my back. Imagined John with Dean and Sam. Nothing ever got past John. His boys were just as good. They were. 

"Now!" 

I scrambled for the gate; tripped in the sand; fell. An instant later I was back up and Dean's hand was on my arm, my hip, pulling me through, closing the door. Holmes started to scream, and I felt my lips pull back in a triumphant snarl. "Scream all you want, you dick, but there's no way you're stepping over that salt!" 

Ok - so it's not a *great* line like 'in your face, asshat'... but I was stressed. 

And god... I loved listening to him scream. 

I was still trying to figure out how the hell Sam managed to wedge himself into that pipe when we emerged into the sunshine. I had come through first, Dean being unwilling to let me out of his sight while we were still underground. 

He promptly disappeared at a trot down the alley. Sam grinned at me. It took me a sec to place the difference in him - he was totally relaxed; comfortable in my company. 

The sound of a truck interrupted the conversation and my train of thought. 

A cement truck. 

I had to laugh. These guys were nothing if not creative. 

"You ripped off a cement truck?" 

Dean grinned at me unrepentantly. "I'll give it back." 

A half hour earlier I'd been fighting for my life, and now I was laughing. The rush was incredible. No wonder my dad had loved this job. No wonder my mom hated it. The cement sluiced down the pipe. It was awesome. I found my hand resting against the hilt of dad's dagger, and it made me feel like he was there with me. There, and grinning, without any shadows in his eyes. Sam and I exchanged a smile, and I felt a little like John was there too. 

"Well, that oughta keep him down there til hell freezes over," Dean drawled deliberately before giving me a smug, satisfied smirk. His face was open, unguarded. No masks, no reservation. Just Dean, just for me. 

It wasn't until I felt the unclenching of my stomach when I saw that smile that I realised how afraid I'd been of not gaining his respect. Of how much I needed him to see me as a Hunter, not just as a bratty ... amateur. 

For the very first time, when I smiled back, it was absolutely real. 

Standing around that hell hole in the ground, encompassed by their acceptance, I felt... 

Right. 

That feeling of being one of the team got me through the meeting up with Mom, through the car ride back. Hell - it gave me a reason to smile at Dean's obvious discomfort. I knew I was in for another shouting match when I got home. But Dean in the front seat, Sam a warm presence beside me... I didn't care. 

I belonged, and they knew it too. 

Then - it all fell apart. 

Dean saying it was all his fault... I was irritated that he felt I couldn't take responsibility for myself, then he said I'd done well and my dad would be proud, and I felt so warm for a second, like Dad had somehow given me a hug. 

My mom's reaction was so... strange. Sending them away, 'like father like sons'... what? 

John? 

Had used my father as bait? 

Had gotten him killed? 

JOHN? 

The only one who ever saw *me*, until his sons... the only one with kind eyes. The only one... 

Oh my god. Daddy. 

I left before my mom could even finish; I had to get out of that dark, closed in space. I needed to be out in the sunshine, where I could process it all. Where I could feel close to my dad. I'd head to the back, where we used to practice throwing the knives. 

"If my boys ever walk through that door, you run the other way. Cause it'll mean there's something out there bigger and badder than me." John had meant the demon. But he'd been right anyway, something big, something bad. Pain. This hurt was like when dad died all over again, only now it included losing my illusions. Of all of them, only John had meant anything to me. How could it have been him? 

The angry burn of tears I blamed on the hot lash of the sun as I burst out of the bar. A quick glance showed me Dean and Sam (*echoes of John*) waiting for me with identical looks of concern on their faces. What minutes before had been belonging now felt like claustrophobia. I couldn't look at Sam (*kind eyes*); could barely face Dean at all. I angled away, not even hearing the words through the buzzing in my ears. "Not now." 

Dean caught me in just a couple of steps. His hand was hot on my shoulder, the frisson of reaction I always had zipped through my skin. The attraction at that moment felt like betrayal. "Get off me!" 

The look that flashed across his face was fleeting, but it was hurt. And anger. Maybe even a trace of contempt. "Sorry. See you around." 

"Dean!" I couldn't let him walk away. It wasn't his responsibility, not his mistake. Not his fault that right now I was seeing John in the fit of flesh over bone, in the set of his shoulders, in his walk. Not his fault... but oh, god did it hurt. 

Dad? Am I an echo of you? 

I forced myself closer, but I wasn't able to look at either of them without my eyes skittering away. Sam, perched on the hood of the Impala, too far to hear but his face reflecting his worry. Dean, angry cold eyes and set jaw only feet away. 

"My dad had a partner on his last hunt..." I forced the words through a tight throat. He needed to know - that honest to gods real smile at the cement truck had bought him that. That and much, much more. "... the guy screwed up, got my dad killed." 

Dean softened, the lines of his face becoming less pissed and more confused. "What does this have to do..." 

"It was your father, Dean." I broke in, couldn't let him finish the sentence. If he kept talking, with that subtle drawl (*echoes of John*) I was going to completely lose it. Every muscle in my body was tight with the effort of just holding control still. My voice shook with the strain of it. 

"What?" It was back to pissed, and wary, and maybe a little 'you're nuts, lady' thrown in for good measure. I knew exactly what he meant. My head was still reverberating with my own unshouted disbelief. I took refuge in Mom's explanation. His shock tempered my sharpness, and my voice was gentler when I told him what she told me. 

"Why do you think he never came back? Why he never told you about us? Cause he couldn't look my mom in the eye, that's why." I felt the bitter sting of tears start to win the battle, swallowed hard and forced them back. 

"Jo..." Dean's voice was gentle and full of disbelief. His voice... it was like John talking to me all over again. I couldn't stand it. I had to leave; and they had to leave too. I straightened my spine, took a deep breath, and looked Dean full on for the first time since coming out the door. It took all the strength I had left. 

"Just... get out of here." I switched that level look to Sam. "Please. Just leave." 

I turned away. 

I could feel Sam's eyes on me as I strode away; could feel Dean's unhappy presence receeding. I knew - I *knew* that I'd hurt him, hurt Sam, hurt that sense of acceptance that had been so necessary and so wonderful. But right then, in that moment, I was in too much pain to care. 

They'd had their dad for more than ten years longer than I'd had mine. Time to pick up his mannerisms, pick up his drawl. Pick up his ruthlessness. John lived on in them. They got to see him every day when they looked at each other, looked in the mirror. 

I took out my knife, gripped its blade so hard the skin parted over my palm. Blood dripped onto the parched ground in slow plump drops. I didn't even have that. Nothing of my dad lived in my face. 

I had only this. His blood in my veins. 

I wondered... what was left of *my* dad? What had his sacrifice been worth? 

Daddy? Am I an echo of you? 

-30-


End file.
